


Silence

by Emmeri



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Child Abuse, Credence needs a hug, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Homophobia, M/M, Manipulative!Graves, Non-Linear Narrative, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spoilers, Unhealthy Relationships, Vulnerable!Credence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:16:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmeri/pseuds/Emmeri
Summary: "I never know what you're thinking, Credence. You never say anything that you mean, and when you do you always cut yourself off."If there was one thing his mom had taught him, it was how to never make a single sound - to, at the very least, never admit what he was thinking.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Due to the way Graves takes extreme advantage of Credence, I would strongly consider this non-con. However, because Credence is a tragic son of a bitch, it leans towards dub-con. Nothing is particularly graphic, just depressing and perhaps jarring.  
> Strong scenes of child abuse

“Step into the light more.”

He pulled into himself with a small shake of his head, peering upwards without raising his head to stare at the voice’s owner. 

“Alright,” the man shrugged, taking a half-step closer before leaning against the wall. “You’re with the Salems, aren’t you?”

“My mother says witchcraft is evil,” Credence responded automatically, staring at the tips of his shoes, musing idly that they were quickly wearing thin. 

“Does she now? And what do _you_ think?”

His breath hitched. He’d never been asked that, never even allowed himself to think about it. 

“I - I think it’s evil too,” his voice was impossibly small; a wave of nausea roiled in his gut because Mom always told him he was either too soft or too loud and he never knew which she’d expect. He was always wrong when he tried to guess. 

“Your birth mother was a witch, wasn’t she?” A step closer and his own step back. 

“I’m not her!” 

“But her blood runs through your veins,” and the man shifted and twisted and distorted until he was _her_ , looming over his prone figure with disgust, eyes flashing and lips drawn back in a smile that was all fang, all hatred and - 

“You don’t need to be afraid,” the man soothed gently, the gap between them widened. He’d returned to his initial spot. 

“I’m not,” Credence protested blankly, knew that fear was wrong because it was _his_ fault she had to beat him, and showing fear only pushed the blame onto her. 

“I’m going to sit down right here,” and he did, pulled his knees up so his elbows could rest casually on them. 

Credence nodded jerkily back, eyed him surreptitiously from behind the lock of fringe that Mom had somehow let him keep for this long. 

Neither of them spoke until Credence finally murmured a barely-heard farewell and trudged back to her. Winced because it was later than he thought, and rested his hand on his belt buckle the whole way there. 

. . . 

His blood ran cold and he was hit with the desire to flee. 

“Mom, it wasn’t me. I didn’t - “ 

A sharp slap against his cheek had him biting his tongue - literally - the taste of blood seeping into his mouth even though none came out. 

“Who else would it have been? Do not forget, your mother was a witch,” she hissed, fingers latching onto his head and forcing him to his knees. 

“Take off your belt.”

Credence blinked, hands trembling and eyes trained on the floor. 

“Take it off!” She shrieked, haggard breath oozing into his ear. 

“Why?” He found himself asking - voice cracking for reasons other than puberty - and regretting it before she got the chance to make him. 

“I was going to let you off _easy_ ,” fingers on his waist, hurriedly undoing the buckle but fumbling in their haste. “It would have just been your hand, but you insisted. This is _your_ fault, Credence.”

He nodded numbly, the words ringing in his head and drowning out the sound of the belt snapping against his shirt-covered back. 

. . . 

"You cut your hair," the man commented idly, adjusting the lapels of his jacket in a seemingly absent gesture. 

Credence flicked his eyes over to the motion, studiously avoiding his face, and offered a lame shrug. 

"It looks nice."

He gnawed on the inside of his cheek rather than answer, glanced at the clock in the street across from him to ensure he wouldn't be late again. 

"Can I see one of those pamphlets?" The man was closer now, hands held out innocuously, but the way the light caught his glittering eyes revealed something else. 

Blinking rapidly, fingers trembling against the sheets, he nodded and thrust it out. 

"Why don't you walk through it with me? Explain to me why witchcraft is wrong."

"It's all in the pamphlet," his voice was hoarse from disuse, and he cleared his throat. 

"I'm not much of a reader. There's a bench right there," his footsteps echoed in the mostly silent street corner, but his face was cast in a friendly glow from the streetlamp. 

Breath stuttering to a halt, Credence moved to chewing his lip before nodding hesitantly, walking over slower than one of those snails he'd seen Modesty crush by mistake. 

"Give me the basics; what makes witchcraft so wrong?" The man questioned only after he'd sat stiffly on the opposite end. 

"It's unnatural," he answered instantly, his teachings echoing in his head. 

"Isn't _not_ doing magic unnatural to witches and wizards?" The man pressed, not unkindly. He sounded genuinely curious, and Credence wished feverishly someone - _anyone_ , really - were here instead. 

"You have to learn magic. It doesn't just happen," his voice was nigh lost in the rush of wind that swept through the street, bringing a stray can and wad of newspaper into the road. 

"Doesn't it though? If you had magic running through your veins, wouldn't you just do things by mis - ?"

"Don't bring me into this!" Credence snapped, pleaded actually, head lowering before the words had left his mouth. 

Too loud, too loud. He was usually too quiet, but right then he was too loud. 

"What makes you think I was referring to you specifically?"

Credence darted his eyes over to the man's hands, resting harmlessly on his lap. He asked too many questions - too many, because Credence didn't know how to answer them. 

"I didn't think that," he decided to say; that seemed safe. 

"Do you think magic can be unlearned?" His arm shifted to drape against the back of the bench, and Credence subconsciously crushed himself into his side of it. 

"I don't know that you can 'unlearn' anything, sir," he replied carefully. 

"And as I said, perhaps you don't need to 'learn' it in the first place. It's inside of you from the moment you're born."

With that, the man clapped a hand on his shoulder - either didn't notice or ignored his responsive flinch - and rose to his feet. 

"Graves, by the way. I'm Percival Graves."

"Credence," he spoke into the wind, well after the man - Graves - was out of sight. 

. . . 

For all of the times she'd accused him of being a filthy witch's son with evil in his blood, he'd never once felt any of the alleged 'magic' he thought he must have. That is, until he watched older brother Obedience be taken by the hair for something he, Credence, had done. 

Filled with anger and regret and frustration and helplessness, he wished violently that Mom would be sick. Would vomit right then and there, and deem herself too ill to possibly carry out any punishment. Chastity could never hurt them the way their mother could, despite numerous lessons, even if Mom thrust the deed onto her. 

To his immense surprise, he felt a strange tingling through his body and - suddenly - Mom doubled over and splattered her dinner all over the floor. Everyone shrieked and a lightbulb shattered, and once the momentary glee wore down, Credence realized he'd never once been more afraid. 

He squashed down any ideas that he could be the cause, building up walls and swallowing down terror so fast that he thought maybe he'd be the next one ill. 

. . . 

Graves was at the same bench again when Credence went to his self-imposed post to hand out pamphlets and, before he could think about it too much, he sat down as far away as possible. 

"Credence, is it?" 

He shuddered visibly, and tried to turn the motion into a nod. 

"Magic can be learned, but only if you have it naturally," he leaned back, sprawling his legs out in front of him. "Perhaps learned is the wrong word. Controlled is more accurate."

Images of Mom throwing up flashed through his mind, those other occasional unexplained instances that had him clamping down on any abnormality as if his life depended on it. (And, maybe, it really did.)

"She would kill me," he admitted softly, his shoulders slumping in defeat, and his grip loosening so half his leaflets were lost with the wind. 

"She hurts you already, doesn't she?" Spoken casually; as though discussing the weather and not the numerous and largely well-deserved beatings. 

He didn't answer, couldn't even had he wanted to, around the lump clogging his throat and making simply breathing a thing of the past. 

"I can help you. I can help you learn control. I can help you escape her," Graves tried, sensing no reaction from the first comment. That one earned a slight shifting and eyes trailing as far up as his neck before going back to the rungs on the bench. 

"I can heal those for you."

His eyes shot up to his with such speed he felt dizzy. 

"What do you mean?" His voice was no more than a whisper, heard only because the breeze carried it over to Graves. 

"Your hand," he gestured to the visible lashes, and Credence stared down at them. 

"But you have to trust me. You have to help me too."

"What - What is it you'd need?" He asked quietly, thinking briefly he may be willing to do anything for relief, even if only temporary. 

. . . 

"Now that you have your pamphlets," Mom began, seated at the head of the table and watching everyone as they clutched the papers that meant they could eat. "I want to do something we haven't in quite some time. Each of you is going to tell me a sin before you're allowed a bite."

She looked on sternly, pausing to meet each person's eyes except for people like Credence, who refused to remove their gaze from the table. 

"I'll start. Witchcraft. Chastity, you next."

"Sex for any reason other than children."

Mom raised her eyebrows, "I'm impressed. You can have seconds."

Chastity smiled weakly, and turned towards her food instead. 

Round and round the table, each word bringing it closer to Credence. 

"Killing other people," he stated softly, the clatter of forks against plates almost drowning it out. 

"Are there not reasons to kill other people?" Mom questioned, setting her utensils down and eyeing him until he met hers. "If they are a sinner and truly deserve it?"

Everyone nodded uncertainly, except for Credence and Modesty and he wished more than anything she had too. 

"Yes? And what sin could be so great as to deserve death?"

"Witchcraft!" Several voices shouted with varying enthusiasm and volume. 

"Very good, very good. But is there not one nearly as evil?" She pressed, staring at Credence so hard he could feel wounds bursting open in anticipation of what would come if he answered incorrectly. 

"Ho - " his voice faltered and cleared his throat so he'd be louder. "Homosexuality."

"Excellent, Credence. I didn't think you had it in you," she praised, sounding so sincere she could only have been sarcastic. 

"It is acceptable - necessary, even - to kill if the person is practicing either witchcraft or homosexuality. Credence, be sure to see me after dinner."

His heart plummeted, but he nodded nonetheless. 

When the belt came crashing down for the first time that night, all he could wonder was why he was hurt even if he did the right thing. 

Was there a right thing to do in the first place?

. . .

"I want you to help me," Credence stated firmly, having rehearsed it countless time in front of the mirror and countless more in his head. 

"I need you to help me, too," Graves answered as though he had expected the request all along. 

He probably had. 

"Yeah. Yes. Anything," he nodded, noting with wry irony that he was selling himself from one devil to another. 

. . . 

"May I have one of those?" Her face was pleasant, her eyes warm in a way he could only compare to when Mom talked about a particularly brutal witch-hunt, but utterly lacking in any malevolence.

"They're against witchcraft," he explained needlessly as he handed it to her, hovering towards the back of one of Mom's street sermons. 

"What's your name? I'm Tina," she offered absently as she thumbed through the pages. 

"Credence," he confessed, eyes trained on her delicate fingers and thinking how soft they looked. 

She was, he realized with a jolt, quite beautiful. 

"That coat is quite fetching on you. Try to stay safe, Credence," she beamed, hands tossing a friendly wave behind her as she wandered off. 

He ran his fingers over his jacket self-consciously, straightening it and thinking for the first time he didn't mind how threadbare it was. 

. . . 

Tucked in the corner, he was quite sure no one could see him unless they were looking for him. A stray thought that Graves had best be here soon else Mom would take it out on his skin, and the man twisted into the space right beside him with an audible 'pop'. 

"Have you had any luck?"

"No one seems to fit your description," Credence shook his head, holding his palms out obediently and waiting to peel back his shirt until Graves gestured for him to do so. 

"You're not trying hard enough!" Graves snapped, eyes flashing before softening in an instant, scanning his face and inevitably seeing the fear like the cloak he wore it as. 

"I'm sorry. Credence, I'm sorry," he apologized sincerely, hands smoothing over his chest and pushing him flush against the alley's wall. 

"You have to try harder," breath ghosting over his chest, fingers wrapping around to his back. 

All air was sucked from him at the gentle touches, and he sagged - held up only by Graves and the brick behind him. 

"What does she say when she notices how quickly you heal?" Graves asked softly, exhales traveling up to his neck, lips a mere hair-width away. 

He wondered if the man could hear his thundering heartbeat, too. 

"She hasn't noticed. I think she's pleased because she can hit me more," Credence admitted in a murmur, frozen to the spot and wishing to push Graves away with the same vehemence he wanted to pull him closer. 

"I don't want you to do this," he whispered as his skin grew moist from the humidity being misted over his torso. 

"You do," Graves argued in the same tone, the same volume. 

Shaking his head, "I don't. Stop this. Please, you know I can't fight you.

 _Won't_. The word he should have said was _won't_. 

"You would if you didn't want this," the tip of a tongue against the hollow of his neck had him shivering, drawing into himself and craning for escape. 

"I don't want this," he pleaded, hit with the irrevocable urge to cry but unable to do so. 

"Shh, it's alright," lips joined the tongue, subjecting him with a gentility he'd never encountered, and he shook his head. 

"Even if I did, this is wrong. Worthy of death. Just like witchcraft," his voice was cracking as though a fuzzy record, muffled also by the hand he had brought up to bite anxiously. 

"Don't lie to me, Credence."

And, despite the feeling of utter _wrongness_ , Credence allowed it. 

. . . 

It was another day, another sermon, and Tina had returned. 

His heart welled and he took several steps towards her before stopping himself and biting his lip, keeping his vision focused on the crack in the sidewalk and idly musing he could very well break his mother's back. 

Stopping didn't matter, however, because she approached him within the next minute. 

"Credence, it's been too long. How are you?" Her eyes sparkled with sincerity that no one else had when asking that arbitrary question. 

It gave him the confidence to offer a small smile, one that felt unnatural and more akin to a grimace. 

"Thank you, and you?"

Her expression faltered, letting him know his diverting hadn't been as subtle as he'd hoped, but she plowed on without comment. 

"Quite well, thanks. Been keeping busy and I hadn't been able to come to a gathering. You weren't at the last one," she added thoughtfully, watching him carefully. 

"It happens sometimes," he acknowledged, handing a pamphlet to avoid further questioning. 

She allowed him that, too, and they spent the rest of the sermon in the back, discussing nothing of consequence in a manner that made him think he'd rather like being her friend. 

. . . 

"Why do you let her hurt you?"

"Why do you _you_?" Credence retorted hotly, eyes daring Graves before he dropped them, his courage with it. "I'm so - "

"No, no. It pains me, Credence. But it's necessary. You've been hurt your whole life, what's a few more months if it serves a purpose?" He asked softly, fingers already deftly unbuttoning coats and vests and shirts, gliding along the planes of skin that had once been riddled with scars but were now smoother than a child's. 

"I'm tired," he sighed, holding himself rigidly during the exploration, speaking the words that plagued him every waking beat yet never made it passed his mouth. 

"I am too. I'm tired of waiting for something you should have delivered weeks ago," Graves chided, his harsh tone colliding with his soft touches to make someone wholly unreadable. "If you would simply do what I ask, I could get you out of there. Give you everything you wanted."

"All I want is to escape her," Credence told him, allowing his neck to be guided back so lips could attach themselves. 

"And you _will_ , as soon as you stop feeling sorry for yourself long enough to find the child. I've given you all of the information I can; the rest is up to you," Graves explained, unbuckling his own trousers and guiding Credence's hands to the bulge resting against the fabric. 

"I'll make you feel good tonight but, because of your failure, you have to return the favor first."

Trembling, he let the hand push him onto his knees and did what was asked. 

. . .

Hands behind his back, head bowed, he let his mother circle him like the prey he was. 

"You're hiding something."

"I'm not," he insisted, regretting the words. No amount of truth was worth defying her. 

"You _are_ ," she hissed. 

Her footsteps echoed loudly in the small room, and he found himself watching her shadow to gauge where exactly she was. 

"Knees."

The simple command had him dropping to the floor in a position that he seemed to spend most of his time in, for varied reasons. 

"Belt."

Another order he was growing overtly familiar with, though the trepidation in this situation far outweighed the nervousness from the other. 

"Perhaps you're not hiding something. The fact of the matter is, you will be at some point. You'll be hiding something because you're nothing but a witch's son, and it's important to punish you now even if your crime is in the future."

He nodded obediently, eyes catching movement in the door his mother's back was to. Two round eyes and soft cheekbones peeped through the crack, and he shook his head in a silent plea for Modesty to leave. 

She didn't, but after the second hit he refused to look at her. 

. . . 

The hand on his back caused him to jump, but the smile relaxed his muscles. 

"You look like you haven't slept much," Tina told him gently, hand returning to rest on his shoulder. 

He shrugged absently, automatically forking over a leaflet. 

She took it, as always, but paused when she caught sight of his palm. 

"Credence, what happened?" Her fingers latched on his wrist, caused all of the pamphlets to drop into a puddle and bleed the ink obscenely. 

"Nothing, nothing," he brushed off hastily, withdrawing. Or, attempting to, because her grip was unrelenting and yanked his hand closer. 

Her face darkened the longer she studied it, and she snapped her neck up to stare at him. 

" _She_ did this, didn't she?"

"I - I don't know what you mean," he shook his head desperately. 

"I'll make her pay. Credence, I swear it."

. . . 

He heard about it later, that Tina had stood up to his mother. 

Nothing changed except that he didn't see Tina again for a very long time. 

. . . 

"Credence," breathed hotly against his ear as Graves rutted against him, hands anywhere his mouth couldn't reach. "I - I need more from you. We're going to my place."

He recognized it for something he could never hope to protest, and nodded helplessly. 

One instant he was being crushed against rough stone, and the next the back of his knees gave away and he collapsed onto something soft. 

A body on top of his in an instant, pinning him down and fumbling with pants. 

"What're you - ?"

"It's alright, Credence."

Always. He _always_ spoke his name. 

Fear wrapping its familiar tendrils, Credence nodded and bit back a soft whimper when a mouth teased him. 

It wasn't until his hips were jerked up and the tongue went lower - somewhere nothing had ever been _ever_ \- that he let out a startled gasp. 

"I don't like that!" He panted, squirming and clamping his eyes shut. 

"You do."

That was another thing, Graves always told him what he did or did not like. 

He paused long enough to wave his wand over the entrance, an odd electrifying sensation trickling up into Credence's rib-cage. 

"What was that?"

"I'm cleaning you out."

"Do you have to? For - for this?"

"Not necessarily, but it's easy and saves potential embarrassment," Graves added, going back to his previous task and letting a finger or two join him. 

Bringing an arm up, he bit into the sensitive flesh there and tried to ignore the discomfort - pain, if he were willing to use the word - of when Graves plunged in. 

For as many grunts and expletives as Graves let loose, Credence was careful to remain obstinately silent.

. . .

It never felt good. 

Despite Graves' insistence that it _did_ , it really, really didn't. 

Once, the second or third time, perhaps, a thrust had caught something inside Credence that made him shudder with pleasure, bite back the tiniest of groans because he refused to be heard. 

He thought maybe he hated the act, the invasive feeling of being stretched and filled and the ridiculous noises Graves' made above him. But, hands milking him, he responded more often than not so couldn't complain too much. 

What he _truly_ craved was the cuddling afterwards. 

It lasted no more than a few minutes on most nights, but Graves would always curl his burlier body around Credence's scrawny form, tugging him close and holding him in a comforting embrace Credence wanted to experience forever. 

. . . 

"You're so quiet, Credence. I never can tell what you like," Graves murmured against his ear, his pace languid but hard. 

Credence shook his head, allowed his own hand to be guided into touching himself. 

He had yet to initiate anything - a kiss, a touch, a sound. It was always Graves' manipulating his body into what felt best. 

"You need to find the child, Credence. We can't keep meeting like this."

A nod this time, arm over his eyes to block it out. 

"She wouldn't hurt you if you could just do this one simple thing for me," against his chest now, tongue slathering ridiculously and thrusts rattling him down to his very bones. 

"I know," he spoke softly, had come to understand he deserved every ounce of pain inflicted upon him, which was why he craved meeting Graves like this. 

It never felt good, but it didn't hurt so much anymore. His own release, on the other hand, made him come crawling back like a gutter whore, and the cuddling had him bending over the nearest surface if only to get to the end. 

. . . 

He would recognize her anywhere, new coat and unattractive hat or not. 

"Tina?" He questioned softly, earning her whipping around to face him. 

"Oh, Credence!" She cried out in a hushed whisper. "You're alright," her face softened and she brought him down to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek. 

He let her cradle his face in her hands, going as far as to close his eyes and rest his forehead against hers. 

. . . 

"Do you like this?" Graves asked one night, arms draped around his back and leg sneaked in between his. 

"I don't know what you mean."

"This arrangement. Wouldn't you rather - ?"

"I'm trying!" Credence cut him off, burrowing further into the other man's chest and praying that this simple comfort wouldn't be shredded away too. 

Several beats of silence passed. 

"I never know what you're thinking, Credence. You never say anything that you mean, and when you do you always cut yourself off."

He simply shook his head, feeling his hair catch in the light sheen of sweat. 

"I like this. Right now. I like what we're doing right now," Credence admitted genuinely, and Graves pulled him closer. 

They always met earlier so they could cuddle longer, after that.

. . . 

He remembered being terrified of Shaw's winning, what it could mean for laws and customs against magic. 

A restless sleep and bouts of unexplained blackness later, and he heard the man was dead. 

. . . 

That angle from so long ago, pushing up against something that sent a wave of pleasure through him, and for the first time a small whimper escaped his mouth. 

Graves stuttered to a stop, panting wildly and hair slicked with sweat and mussed into chaos. 

Teeth glinted in the darkness, and he bent down to capture Credence's lips in a bruising kiss. 

"Do you know how long I've waited to hear you make a noise? Where was it? Here?" He jerked forward experimentally several times before catching it again, and Credence shut his eyes and breathed through his nose.

"I think things just got a lot more interesting."

Credence didn't realize he was crying until he tasted the salt, and then he couldn't tell if it was from enjoyment or shame. 

. . .

He'd spent his whole life being an outlet for frustration, but it didn't occur to him that he could use others the way they had used him until Graves had told him it was all a lie - that he was a worthless squib without an ounce of magic. Until his mother had threatened to beat Modesty right in front of him, and suddenly she was dead at his feet. 

Until he was tearing through New York City to cause pain, to, if nothing else, escape from his own pain. 

And then, all at once, it hit him that he didn't _want_ to hurt others when Tina came into the subway, used her naturally soft tones and gentle words to coax him into releasing the anger and hurt instead of weaponizing it. 

He wanted to listen, wanted to believe the kind words that even Graves and that unfamiliar man were caressing him with. 

He would have, perhaps, had he not been shattered by a dozen spells and sent into the comforting nothingness he'd sought after his whole life.


End file.
